From November, 2017

Mens sana in corpore sano

Tattoo itch is a psychologically classifiable phenomenon defined in the DSM-V as “the fierce desire to adorn one’s bodily-canvas with subcutaneous ink.” I’ve 3.5 tats mesirch: a feather quill on my foot representing my penchant for writing; the Roman numeral XXXVIII on the back of my neck below my hairline to commemorate family both biological and acquired (four of my five grandparents were born in 1938, except for my paternal grandfather — his birthdate, ’28, fits à la a matryoshka doll); a Venus symbol “prison tattoo” I stuck-and-poked on my ankle featuring an immaculately ballpoint-penned circle; the faded word valkyrie…

Music as a “microcosm of the soul”

Belatedly, I’ve become besotted by the sonic cohesion of an album … as evidenced by the borrowed goliath black boombox stacked atop a turntable in my dorm room and my multiplicative library’a music in weathered sleeves/cracked plastic cases. Listening to a record in full provides a different auditory experience than singles alone. Particularly analog mediums: vinyls and cassette tapes. CDs fall somewhere mid-spectrum between tangible and digital. Presently, I’m playlisting Paperboy, my cautionary tale (read: book-to-be) about mythologizing/mythicizing people in a très romantique capacity … inspired by my true teen-ass tendency to valorize my crushees unawares! Which I wholeheartedly advise…

“We are here!” — Theodor S. Geisel

Periodically, I marvel at the fact that, in the grande schematic of our dimension, here is a toenail-sliver of time/space in which I exist. Churning organs and mitochondrial whatnots comprise the machine sheltering my singularity, and I am breathing oxygen, and I am alive. Time extends its insouciant fingerlings before and after my presence on…

“I know it breaks your heart / Moved to the city in my dad’s functional silver 2008 Prius, Sebastian”

Over Halloween visiting my Manhattan-dwelling pal — heretofore MDP — in NEW! YORK! CITY!, I perched on a fifth-floor fire escape at a party, dressed like Ursula/Medusa/a deep-sea Saturday night seductress, inhaling secondhand carcinogens and city lights like goddamn Carrie Bradshaw. A welcome weekend escape from the what-do-I-do? “Game of Life” charade that’s been plaguing…